I didn't ride last night, which is fine because my legs are toast; I took the kids to the Family Fun Night at their school. As soon as we got there Em took off and I didn't see her again until I ran into her and took this picture: Queen Bee Emilie and her posse. Em was embarrassed just knowing I was someplace in her school. Taking a picture with her friends around just horrified her. When we got home we were best friends again, she snuggled in my lap and we watched King Kong together and fell asleep on the couch. I don't take times like that for granite.
This morning I did another road ride to Hell. There was a sign there that said "Hell Welcomes The Travel Channel". I'm not sure what to make of that. It was only 21 degrees out but it was sunny, dry, and no wind. It really was a great ride. I kept my heart rate below 150 BPM and just enjoyed myself.
Before my ride I got my hair cut. I am embarrassed to tell anyone how much I use to pay for hair cuts when I was young and vane. Now I am old and balding so I don't care where I get my hair cut. I go to one of those chains where you don't make an appointment, you just wait in a cue until it is your turn. The only problem is there is one girl I don't want to cut my hair. I like hearing her talk but she is a bigger girl with huge hands, they look like latex gloves blown up with air. I normally tell the girl cutting my hair to leave it finger width long but this girl's mitts are so big that a tuff of hair won't stick up between her fingers even before she started cutting. What I decided to do last year was if I saw her working, I would pretend I received an emergency text and I would leave and come back another day. This was too complicated so I just memorized the name of one of the other girls', Heather Lulu Hicks. I just ask to wait for Heather and I have nothing to worry about. Today I noticed Heather wasn't working but man-hands wasn't either so I didn't care. They call me and, as I'm walking back, I looked up and there was man-hands. Oh crap. Another girl intercepted me and set me in her chair. As she was cutting my hair she tugged on my ear and asked if I rode motorcycles. I am a motorcyclist. I am a responsible dad too so the only motorcycle I have left in my stable is a beautiful 1982 Yamaha RD350LC liquid cooled 2-stroke road bike that I smuggled across the border from Canada when I was in high school to race in the Production D class in the WERA motorcycle racing series. This bike wasn't street legal in the States, but since it was a production motorcycle I could race in the production class. I wasn't sure why she asked. She looks like she spent many, many years on a Harley Davidson so I thought she might be hitting on me. I was both flattered and horrified. I told her: "no, I am not a motorcyclist." She says: "hum...you have very firm ears, usually people get strong ears from waring helmets, you know, football or motorcycle helmets." There is no mistaking me as a football player. I told her I ride a bike a lot, it must be from wearing a bicycle helmet, and she agrees. I am 42 years old, falling apart at the seams, and neck deep into my midlife crisis. But I have pirkey ears. Sweet.